


Renaissance Men

by NotHereNJ (efficaceous)



Category: Shameless (US)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Different First Meeting, M/M, Poetry, open mike night
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-20
Updated: 2020-08-21
Packaged: 2021-03-06 17:28:40
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 6,858
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26002678
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/efficaceous/pseuds/NotHereNJ
Summary: Tiffany Anne posted this:"So hear me out...Mickey as a poet and they meet at a lounge where Mickey is performing as Ian sits in the audience...or, maybe Ian could be the bartender?I would like to read it. 🥺😍"and then I ran with it. 🤷♀️
Relationships: Ian Gallagher/Mickey Milkovich
Comments: 15
Kudos: 71





	1. Rimbaud, “You are in love. Occupied until the month of August.”

[_Waiting for what?_](https://pics.me.me/waiting-for-what-id-like-to-know-it-is-august-62474038.png)

[_I'd like to know. It is August._](https://pics.me.me/waiting-for-what-id-like-to-know-it-is-august-62474038.png)

_My life is going to change. I feel it._

If Ian had written Santa Claus, describing his perfect man, to be delivered in a prettily wrapped box, set atop with a bright red bow, he would look and act exactly like the man on the small stage of the community center, reading poetry off his mobile phone’s illuminated screen. From the square rimmed glasses and dark, slicked back hair, to the full-sleeve tattoos winding up the pale skin of his arms, broken only by the rolled up cuffs of his crisp button-up shirt (top two buttons open, thank christ), and the thick thighs filling out his dark-washed denim jeans- Ian wants to eat this man for every meal of the day and twice for dessert.

It doesn’t help that the guy is reciting snippets of poetry in an archly complex voice, lifting and flicking his eyebrows for emphasis at the appropriate times. His eyes never leave the screen of his phone, not until the last line.

[_We're not serious when we are seventeen, and when we have green linden trees in the park._](https://www.poetryfoundation.org/poems/57278/novel)

The guy lets his voice roll through the room, all the way to the back wall where Ian leans, and then, _oh fuck_ , then he looks up and Ian is weak at the knees, feels genuinely like he might need to hold onto something because his eyes are so _blue_. And Ian isn’t a poet but he wishes he were, just so he could try to describe that color, but the only word he has is blue and it’s utterly inadequate for what he sees. 

“I’m Mickey, and fuck you very much for coming out tonight. I’ll be back in a bit, need a drink and a smoke.” The guy quirks a half smile, nearly a smirk, then hops lightly down from the stage. And maybe Ian is just here to keep Carl company as his younger brother hunts down the woman of his dreams (who he met making a floral delivery last week), and ok, he’s still in his work uniform, name emblazoned on his chest under the EMT badge, but this might actually be love at first sight. Or at the very least, lust the likes of which he’s never encountered, not clean or sane or sober or in years. He has to talk to the guy, so he pushes his way through the crowd, not even considering what he plans to say, just feeling the overriding compulsion to be nearer to him. Ian finds the guy at the bar, smoking, holding the cigarette between his thumb and pointer finger. Ian comes to stand awkwardly beside him, opens his mouth and… closes it again, suddenly uncertain.

The guy deliberately blows smoke in his face, arching one of those perfectly evocative eyebrows in a way that asks _The fuck do you want?_

“Hi, I- I just wanted to say, um,” He knows he is going down in flames, this is mortifying, “I- hi. Wanted to say hi!” 

“That right, Doc? You wanted to say _hi_?” The last word curls out in a purr and Ian can see that his lashes are thick, framing those incredibly blue eyes. Ian is staring, dumbstruck, and the guy sucks on the cigarette again, letting furls of smoke come out of his nose like he’s some kind of fuck-dragon, a dragon of sex, made just for Ian. He scrambles, internally trying to come up with some kind of line, a sentence, some semblance of words that will indicate that Ian has an IQ over 30.

“Does your life change every August?” _That’s_ what he came up with? That’s, like, objectively terrible. Meaningless. Ian cringes back from his own words, shoulders drooping. He used to know how to do this, how to be slick, and charm men. 

“Nah, it’s just a poem. They don’t mean shit, just have to sound good.” But the guy glances away, eyes flicking down, and Ian thinks, perhaps, poems do mean something to this guy. Or some poems, at least.

On the stage, an angry young woman with blond hair and long bangs is reciting a poem, or least, not reading it off her phone:

[ _I want a red dress._ ](https://wintergetaway.com/getaway-reads-two-poems-by-kim-addonizio/)

[ _I want it flimsy and cheap._ ](https://wintergetaway.com/getaway-reads-two-poems-by-kim-addonizio/)

[ _I want it too tight,_ ](https://wintergetaway.com/getaway-reads-two-poems-by-kim-addonizio/)

[_I want to wear it_ _until someone tears it off me._](https://wintergetaway.com/getaway-reads-two-poems-by-kim-addonizio/)

Oh, Carl was screwed, if that was the girl. She was too smart for him, even if those weren’t her own words, she was too fast, too much for his younger brother.

The guy in front of him tapped the bar with his middle finger, and Ian saw that his sleeve tattoos carried all the way down to his knuckles, each proximal phalange (the Latin coming to him from the pages of an old textbook) decorated with a letter. After some quick anagrams in his head, Ian realized what they spelled, and his knees nearly sagged again. _Fuck-U-Up_ . _No fucking shit._ A sweating beer bottle slid down the bar into the guy’s waiting hand, and he lifted it to his mouth.

Ian was basically invisible to him, had been effectively dismissed as a moron, and he wasn’t making that seem less true when he watched those impossibly full lips surround the brown beer bottle, and the pale throat swallow the liquid down. 

Fuck, Ian didn’t even know if the guy was gay, and yet here he was, hard in his polyester uniform pants like a kid. The woman on stage was wrapping up her set, pacing and stomping the wooden stage, tall heels providing a staccato rhythm to back up her words:

[ _and I’ll wear it like bones, like skin,_ ](https://wintergetaway.com/getaway-reads-two-poems-by-kim-addonizio/)

[ _it’ll be the goddamned_ ](https://wintergetaway.com/getaway-reads-two-poems-by-kim-addonizio/)

[ _dress they bury me in._ ](https://wintergetaway.com/getaway-reads-two-poems-by-kim-addonizio/)

She flashed a quick, bright smile, gave a little bow, and held her hand out to the crowd to help her off stage. Carl was right there, face open and awed, though she hadn’t even given him a glance.

“And now, to wrap up the night, one last from Mickey!”

The crowd, though small, managed to produce a rousing and energetic roar of enthusiasm. The guy downed the rest of the beer, then seemed to notice Ian still standing beside him.

“Ey, keep your ears open. You may learn something.”

And he pushed past Ian, putting one tattooed hand on his arm as he passed, making his way up to the stage, swinging up with an odd grace. The place where the man had touched Ian burned with a deep heat.

Mickey didn’t offer much of an introduction, “This one’s Richard Siken, Little Beast / Crush.”

_[ He had green eyes, ](http://youngerpoets.yupnet.org/2008/04/22/little-beast-crush-by-richard-siken/) _

_[ so I wanted to sleep with him— ](http://youngerpoets.yupnet.org/2008/04/22/little-beast-crush-by-richard-siken/) _

_[ green eyes flecked with yellow, dried leaves on the surface of a pool- ](http://youngerpoets.yupnet.org/2008/04/22/little-beast-crush-by-richard-siken/) _

_[ You could drown in those eyes, I said. ](http://youngerpoets.yupnet.org/2008/04/22/little-beast-crush-by-richard-siken/) _

Ian wasn’t listening anymore, couldn’t quite parse the words. Green eyes, was- was the guy talking about _him_ ? He didn’t want to jump to conclusions but, fuck, _He had green eyes, so I wanted to sleep with him_ seemed like a pretty clear fucking declaration of intent. He stared up at the man, at _Mickey_ , as he paced frenetically across the stage, voice ranting, making the words of the poem sound like threats.

[ _I wanted to take him home_ ](http://youngerpoets.yupnet.org/2008/04/22/little-beast-crush-by-richard-siken/)

_[ and rough him up and get my hands inside him, drive my body into his ](http://youngerpoets.yupnet.org/2008/04/22/little-beast-crush-by-richard-siken/) _

_[ like a crash test car. ](http://youngerpoets.yupnet.org/2008/04/22/little-beast-crush-by-richard-siken/) _

He couldn’t breath, couldn’t think. Mickey was _definitely_ gay. That was good, that was great, actually, except Ian had pretty much killed all chance of presenting himself like anything but a lump of clay. He ran a frantic hand through his close-cropped red hair, listening, _wanting_ , body exquisitely tuned to frequency emitting from the man on the stage.

_[ I wanted to be wanted and he was ](http://youngerpoets.yupnet.org/2008/04/22/little-beast-crush-by-richard-siken/) _

_[ very beautiful, kissed with his eyes closed, ](http://youngerpoets.yupnet.org/2008/04/22/little-beast-crush-by-richard-siken/) _

_[ and only felt good while moving. ](http://youngerpoets.yupnet.org/2008/04/22/little-beast-crush-by-richard-siken/) _

It felt like Mickey was talking to him, about him, even though his eyes never left his phone. He was torn between wanting the poem to end so he could talk to Mickey again, find out more about who he was, maybe finding a dark corner of the center to get closer, and standing, raptly listening to literally anything Mickey wanted to read off his phone until Ian fell where he stood. 

_[ You could drown in those eyes, I said, ](http://youngerpoets.yupnet.org/2008/04/22/little-beast-crush-by-richard-siken/) _

_[ so it’s summer, so it’s suicide, ](http://youngerpoets.yupnet.org/2008/04/22/little-beast-crush-by-richard-siken/) _

_[ so we’re helpless in sleep and struggling at the bottom of the pool. ](http://youngerpoets.yupnet.org/2008/04/22/little-beast-crush-by-richard-siken/) _

Maybe he hadn’t made that bad of an impression? He could- he would- go up to Mickey, offer to buy him a drink. Ask about anything other than poetry, obviously. Try and impress him, show him the shiny new silver Jeep Clayton had gifted him, endeavoring to win his way into Ian’s life, post-divorce hoping to form a new family with Ian, instead of fixing the one he had. 

He had a vision of driving, Mickey in the passenger seat, their fingers interwoven, a smile on Mickey’s face. He hadn’t seen Mickey’s smile yet, not really, but he could picture it, in his mind, white teeth and full cheeks. His mind had wandered, but he came back, as Mickey stood dead center on the stage, lights beating down on his face, as he read the last lines off his phone, voice low and urgent.

_[ It’s thinking of stabbing us to death ](http://youngerpoets.yupnet.org/2008/04/22/little-beast-crush-by-richard-siken/) _

_[ and leaving our bodies in a dumpster. ](http://youngerpoets.yupnet.org/2008/04/22/little-beast-crush-by-richard-siken/) _

_[ That’s a nice touch, stains in the night, ](http://youngerpoets.yupnet.org/2008/04/22/little-beast-crush-by-richard-siken/) _

_[ whiskey and kisses for everyone. ](http://youngerpoets.yupnet.org/2008/04/22/little-beast-crush-by-richard-siken/) _

The room erupted, loud cheers and applause from every corner and hand, including Ian’s. He watched as Mickey slid on his generous ass over the edge of the stage. 

This time, Ian was prepared, finding a spot by Mickey’s bar stool before the shorter man even arrived. He flagged down the bartender, ordering another of whatever Mickey had been drinking earlier. As Mickey sat, Ian turned, tilting his head and trying to flex his shoulders a little.

Mickey turned away from him, and started talking to the woman on his other side, the blonde who had read before him. Ian was stunned. Had Mickey just ignored him? But… the poem? Didn’t he…?

Ian regrouped, picking up the orphaned beer he’d ordered for Mickey, and resting one elbow on the bar, bringing his body in close behind the performer. He knew Mickey could feel him there, maybe the heat of his body or some sixth sense, because Ian could see the fine hairs on the back of his neck standing up, stippled with small, fine freckles. He breathed out, knowing it would riffle across Mickey’s neck, behind his ear, hoping to entice the man to turn, to face him, to engage.

One breath, and nothing. A second and -

Mickey rounded on him, spinning swiftly, but his face was anything but open or warm. He was mad- but why?

“The fuck you think you’re doing, Red? Stop breathin on me, aright?”

“B- but-” Ian was stammering, badly confused. “The- the poem? Did you- I mean, wasn’t it-” Didn't he say he _wanted to be wanted_?

“Told you, man, it’s just fuckin’ art. Means everything, and nothing. Mostly, nothin’.” Mickey’s tone was guarded now, less angry, but still not what Ian had been expecting at all. His fanciful fantasies of dark corners, warm lips, and hotm tattooed hands were all turning to dust.

“Oh, I- I guess I misunderstood.” His tone was abject, wanting desperately for Mickey to crack, to let him in on the joke, tell him he’d been right, of course he’d been right, _green eyes_ , right?

Nothing.

“Yeah, ya did. I’ll tell you this one time to back off. Next time, I’mma break both your fuckin’ kneecaps. Okay? Okay.” And then he turned back to the woman, rolling his shoulders like he could feel Ian’s devastated stare across his back like a weight.

Ian slunk away, finding Carl drinking, watching the blonde woman with Mickey. Because of course that was her. He shook himself, trying to slide back into the role of older brother, upstanding citizen, effective asexual, based on his current luck.

“Dude, she’s way outta your league.”

Carl protested, “Why would you say that? I’m your brother, don’t that mean I deserve the best?”

“I think she’s with Mickey, anyway.” That was the only excuse his tired brain could come up with for the whiplash effect, from neutral, to flirtatious poetry, to rejection, that Mickey had shown him. 

“Isn’t he into dudes? Wasn’t his whole poem about him, like, hooking up with a dude?”

“Poetry isn’t real life, sometimes, Carl.” The exhaustion of his day was hitting Ian all at once, the endorphins and adrenaline of interest all filtering out of his blood, leaving him drained and hollow. All he wanted was to go home and forget about this night, about the poem, about Mickey, about Mickey’s eyes.


	2. DeLaria, “What do you mean you don’t believe in homosexuality? It’s not like the Easter Bunny, your belief isn’t necessary.”

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Comedy night.

But of course Ian couldn’t forget the guy. Not that night or all that week. It didn’t help that Carl began his campaign for their return pretty much as soon as they stepped out onto the sidewalk. 

“Next week’s a comedy show! Think she’ll be there? Wait, do you think she’ll perform again? A funny chick, I could be into that,” he mused as they rode home in Ian’s Jeep.

It had gone on that way for six interminable days.

“Yo, Ian, Saturday night, you and me again, right?”

“Bro, we good for this weekend?”

Ian would probably give in, of course Ian would give in. He had Saturday off this week, so he would be able to dress up a little, not show up in his EMT uniform. Maybe that had been the issue? He still couldn’t understand what he’d done to make Mickey reject him. He was still hot, right?

Carl caught him in the bathroom on Saturday afternoon, taking pictures of his face, trying to see if maybe he’d gotten uglier recently. 

“Need to take your shirt off if you’re tryin’ to sext with someone.”

“Huh?”

“Your shirt. _Off_. No one cares about your face these days, only abs, and maybe your dick. You send ‘em a dick pic yet?”

“Wha- no, I’m not _sending_ these to anyone.” His protests fell on deaf ears: Carl grinned knowingly, holding out his hand for Ian’s phone. After a beat, he handed it over, and Carl swiped through.

“You considered spicing it up? These’re putting me to sleep, you look like a youth pastor or some shit.”

“I’m NOT sending them to anyone, a’right?”

“Good, these ain’t gonna get you shit. Leavin’ in about an hour, hey, can I drive your car tonight? Chicks dig a hot car.” Carl grinned, raising one eyebrow.

“Uh, yeah, sure, maybe.” Ian’s attention was still elsewhere.

“Cool, thanks! You’re still coming with me!” Carl headed downstairs before he could argue the point, and Ian was left with his phone and his sad, sad pictures in the bathroom. Maybe he should check himself out, just a little?

He lifted the front of his shirt, snapping a shot of his flexed abs and inspecting it. 

Yup, still hot.

So what was it about him that Mickey didn’t like? Some people weren’t into the ginger thing, but if Ian showed up a week later with black hair, people would look at him funny.

Was it possible Mickey was in a relationship with that girl? That could explain a lot, actually. Maybe he was bi, and with a woman. Ian had never _enjoyed_ being ‘the other woman’ and there was no way he’d deliberately try and break up a couple just cause the guy had dick-sucking lips for days, but… that just wasn’t the vibe he’d gotten, from either Mickey or from the girl. He needed more information, more evidence. Which meant he had to go back tonight, give in to Carl. What a hardship.

\---

The comedy show at the community center was packed. Didn’t hurt that the bar was cheap, and there was no cover to get in. Wall to wall bodies in the August heat, and the a/c units were working overtime, moving stale air until it became barely tolerable.

While Carl parked the Jeep, Ian wedged himself against the back wall again. The show hadn’t started yet, so he took in the crowd, trying to calm his nerves. No stocky, dark haired Christmas presents lurking, that he sees. Maybe the guy doesn’t like comedy, maybe it was a one-off, maybe he’d never see Mickey again- his brain short circuited, and he pressed his way to the bar to grab his one beer for the night. 

Ian secured a bar stool and a cool beer (not cold, that would be asking too much), and surveyed the crowd. The blond woman Carl lusts after was flitting around, checking the microphone and audio setup.

Soon enough, the show starts, and after a warm-up act, Ian can see the face he’s been daydreaming about all week.

The crowd started cheering and clapping, some even jumping up and down as if this was the highlight of their week. Ian’s neck is already laced with perspiration so he pulls at and loosens his tie, eyes focused on a body on stage, illuminated by a single spotlight. He’d worn the tie thinking it would match Mickey’s debauched office attire, but one glance tells him nothing can measure up to Mickey. His button down this week is a pale, ice blue, sleeves once again rolled up. He’s added a gold tie and a charcoal waistcoat, which Ian didn’t know was a particularly sexy item of apparel until he saw it on Mickey and immediately wanted to rip the buttons off with his teeth. 

The comedy set starts out with Mickey generally commenting on the crowd, poking fun at them.

“You folks, you look like you walked into Old Army, fell into the clearance rack, and said ‘I’ll take it!’”

Sometimes, he focused on a particular audience member, “What are you, in a Bon Jovi video? What are you doing? Cut your damn hair!”

Ian left his bar stool and slowly made his way to the foot of the stage. He knew when Mickey noticed him, because the eyebrows shot up to his hairline, and he directed the next comment directly to Ian, “Really, bitch?”

Then he let loose with a long, flowing monologue, designed specifically to address Ian’s physical and mental failings. 

“Lemme ask you a question, Red. What do you do successfully? Quickly!” He didn’t let Ian reply, of course, just smirking, before moving on to continue his verbal assault. “Don’t worry, man, you got a long-ass life ahead of you. Beauty fades, dumb is forever.”

The audience groaned, but they were into it: there was a warm electricity in the room. 

“Don’t boo! Don’t boo- this tall mother fucker just came here to set me up to look better than him in a tie! Can’t tell me I don’t look good tonight, better than his pale ass!”

There was general agreement from the crowd, and from Ian; Mickey looked hot, small beads of sweat at his temples but when he would turn and stalk, Ian would catch glimpses of his ass again and have to steel himself. He _wanted_ that ass. 

Some men would have quailed before this onslaught of negativity, but Ian had noticed something, something he considered vitally important. The lines sound too well planned, too rehearsed, to be off-the-cuff. Mickey had expected, maybe _hoped_ , Ian would be here, thought of ways to insult him. Might be fucked up, but at least Mickey was thinking about him.

“Sorry, sorry. We should all be nice to him ‘cause he’s a ginger and he’s gonna die alone.”

“If I was stuck alone in a room with this asshole, my father, and a tiger, I’d shoot him twice, my father once, and then let the fucking tiger eat me, it’d be the most action I’ve had all year!”

They _howled_ at that one. Ian just kept his face turned to Mickey like a sunflower on a stalk following the sun. All he could think was about how much time Mickey was spending, talking about him, about how many details Mickey had noticed about him. It was pretty flattering really, even if all he offered were insults.

“He’s an EMT, you want this dumb mother fucker coming when your shit’s fucked up? I don’t! EMT- stands for Expressly Meant to Drive, drives the band-aid wagon, that’s it.”

Ian laughs at that one, because it’s _true_ , it’s all true- Mickey had noticed him. Mickey had been paying a lot of attention last week to remember his EMT uniform. 

Mickey had finally moved on, winding down the set that had basically just been an extended conversation between him and Ian, with a large audience. Perfunctorily, he left the stage, and Ian went to find Carl, who was eye fucking the blond from a distance. Ian was floating, walking on air, because Mickey noticed him. Paid attention enough to his hair and his clothing to have been studying him. Now all he had to do was figure out why the guy had been so offended by Ian’s interest, when it was so obviously a two-way street. 

He sipped the beer that had gone fully warm in his hands during Mickey’s set, watching from afar as a few, less talented performers got up, got a few laughs, and departed, Mickey nowhere in sight. Carl was torn between watching the woman and wanting to approach her. It tickled Ian, seeing his usually confident younger brother so conflicted over a romantic interest. He still believed Carl didn’t stand a chance: the woman was at least five years his senior, and decades more worldly.

The bartender came over with another bottle of beer, this one icy cold, placing it in front of Ian. 

"I didn't order this?"

"Nah, someone sent it over. Said thanks for bein' a good sport. S' from his special stash, s' why it's actually cold."

Ian knew who had sent it. Knew Mickey was watching, interested despite whatever bullshit excuse he was putting up.

He tipped the bartender, and sipped the icy liquid.

It wasn't a done deal quite yet, but Ian thought he had a chance at that sublime ass, at having those tattooed knuckles running through his hair as he knelt- he was drooling. He wiped his mouth with a sleeve, glancing around hoping no one noticed.

Soon, the event started winding down, and Carl made his move. He approached the woman, and they had a brief conversation. It didn’t seem to be going too terribly, from Ian’s vantage point at the bar. Carl bounded back to him, practically vibrating with excitement.

“Yo, I offered her a ride home and she said yes, man! You’re cool with that, right?”

Ian nodded. What was the point in having a slick car if it didn’t at least help _someone_ get laid? At least Carl hadn’t taken the car and left Ian there alone. 

“Up front in five?” Carl tossed him the keys, and Ian realized he’d been demoted to the role of chauffeur for the ride home. Not seeing Mickey anywhere, he went to pull the Jeep up front.

When he pulled up and unlocked the doors, Carl extravagantly opened the back door for the woman, then slid in next to her. 

The woman plastered herself to the far door away from Carl, then met Ian’s eyes in the rear-view mirror. 

“Ok if my brother comes too?”

“Anything for you, baby,” Carl answered, obviously lowering his voice into a deeper register that sounded wildly unnatural. 

Ian rolled his eyes, but added his confirmation, “Sure, ok.”

The passenger door opened and -

Mickey slid in.

The woman wasn’t Mickey’s _girlfriend_ or wife, she was his sister. 

And now Mickey was in his car. He was gonna find out where Mickey lived. He inwardly vowed to buy Carl a fancy Christmas present this year.

Mickey kept his eyes focused out the front windshield, and Ian put the car in gear. As he looked down at the shift knob, all he could think about was his daydream from the week before, of lacing their fingers together while he drove.

“Uh, address?” He directed this query to Mickey, as Mandy was determinedly staring out her window, ignoring Carl’s conversational advances and lustful gaze.

“1955 South Trumbull. It’s not far- you didn’t have to do this this shit. We coulda walked.” Mickey shot his sister a killing glance over his shoulder, and as his focus came back, he clearly appraised Ian’s body, saying nothing.

“My brother asked for a favor, my absentee father gave me a car, how could I refuse? You know, we’re only a few blocks from each other.” Ian offered a winning smile.

“No shit?” Mickey’s attention was on his face now, genuine surprise evident. “Thought you were just some North-side pricks slummin’ it.”

“Yeah, no, South Wallace. My whole life. Surprised we never met before.” Ian knew this line of conversation was a risk, but what did he have to lose?

“No surprise, Red. Mandy n’ me didn’t really do the school thing, too much other shit goin’ on, plus we got a few years on you.”

Ian was driving like an old lady, slowly, carefully, coming to a full stop at every yellow light, but they were already turning on Trumbull, and the house was clearly visible.

He’d run past it probably a thousand times in his life, never knowing that just inside was this person who was making him hard in his dress slacks just by smelling so damn good next to him. Was that cologne? Body wash? Ian wanted to ask but thought better of it.

He could see, at last, heat in Mickey’s eyes, the slow perusal of Ian's limbs, as Mickey unfolded and climbed out of the Jeep.

And Ian knows for sure. He _knows_. Game on, bitch.

As Mickey looked back before slamming the car door, maybe about to thank him, Ian dropped him a wink and a push of the chin. He could see Mickey was fucking _blushing_ and it looked so damn good on him. They didn't exchange a single word, but that tension and lightning? It was stronger than ever.

Mandy hustled out of the Jeep and gave Carl a half-assed wave as he asked if he could get her number. Ian watched the siblings walk up the steps and enter the house before pulling away.

Carl stretched out on his back on the backseat. 

“She wants me, man, I can tell. Hot, right?”

“Sure, Carl. Uh- so what’s next week’s theme?”

“Next week’s they’re closed but in two weeks it’s back to fuckin’ poetry, I don’t understand that shit at all but Mandy’ll be reading so I’ll be there.” Carl sat up suddenly. “Wait, you like that guy, Mickey? Why- didn’t he just, like, roast you for 20 minutes in front of an audience?”

Ian just shook his head. He can’t explain. 

Because it’s just art. 

It doesn’t mean anything, until it does.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> NOTES: Most of Mickey’s roast/comedy content is from the hilarious drag queen Bianca Del Rio. I am still hoping and waiting for the Anna Nonymous / Mickey in drag fic to be finished someday!
> 
> Carl and Mandy? NEVER gonna happen but I have this headcanon that Carl is into Mandy, so it shows up a lot in my work. IDK.


	3. Baldwin, “Love came slouching along.”

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ian has a Plan. Things don't go according to plan.

It had been two weeks of unceasing agony for Ian, as he replayed his interactions with Mickey, dissecting every word and glance for clues as to how he should proceed. Technically, he knew where the guy lived and all, but he knew better than to drop by unannounced. The only ‘in’ he had was the community center’s open mic night. Carl had been up his ass to boot, convinced Mandy’s dismissal is actually a convoluted message of interest. It isn’t, even Ian can see that. 

Then again, he can’t figure Mickey out, like what had flipped the switch from invisibility to snark to actually  _ seeing  _ Ian as a person? If he could just find that trigger, he would exploit it to the fullest. But in the absence of solid information, he had developed a shaky plan. It involved a lot of guesswork, and Ian wasn’t at all sure it would have the desired effect. Short of staking Mickey’s house out and then ambushing him, it was all he had.

_ Plan, Part 1 of ?? The Right Tool for the Job _

Ian knew that Mickey appreciated his body. That long stare when he’d been exiting the Jeep told the whole story. All he had to do was wear clothing that accentuated whatever it was Mickey saw and liked. It had seemed like there was something about how those blue eyes had traced the length of Ian’s arms and torso and legs, so clearly he had to emphasize that. He settled on a heathered green tee shirt that had shrunk in the dryer, and his tightest pair of skinny jeans, all finished off with a pair of old, tan army boots that added another two inches to his height. With some gel in his hair and clean shave, he felt like he was ready for

_ Plan, Part 2 of ?? Survey the Landscape _

He and Carl made their arrival strategic, not too early, before the place had filled up, but not so late that they might miss any of the performance. While Ian busied himself with a brief errand, Carl hung around the stage door, hoping for a glimpse of his prey. All he found was Mickey, who slammed the door open nearly in Carl’s face. 

“Hey, Mickey, right?”

“Yeah, and?” Mickey may not have recognized Carl, but he clearly knew the type.

“Lookin for your sister, Mandy, right?”

“Only one I got.” He wasn’t going to make this easy.

Carl clasped his hands behind his back, trying to look respectable. It wasn’t working, his eyes were too intense and his tone too fervent. “Is she- so is she seeing anyone?”

“Mandy?”

“Yeah, is Mandy seeing anyone right now? Like, dating a guy?”

“Nah, not a guy.” Hope dawned across Carl’s face, only to dim as Mickey continued to speak. “She’s had a girlfriend for a few years though. Fuckin’ Karen this and Karen that. Those two bitches wanna ruin my fuckin life.”

“She’s- she’s gay?”

“Total carpet muncher. Runs in the family, queers and queens all up and down. Sorry, kid.”

Carl’s face had fallen, a dark shadow across his formerly bright visage. 

Mickey seemed uncomfortable, raising a tattooed hand to hesitantly pay Carl on the shoulder, just the once. Then he turned and returned to the backstage area, closing the door quietly for once.

“I’m fuckin outta here, man.” Carl was whispering to no one in particular, before leaving out the back door of the community center. Ian caught the barest flash of his brother slipping out, and assumed Mandy had finally and successfully rejected him. Sad, but necessary. 

The next obvious thought was that he was next to be rejected, and once the thought had bubbled up into his mind, it was all he could think of. He had the whole grand romantic gesture planned, and it could still fail spectacularly. He needed some liquid courage, so he hurried over to the bar and ordered three shots. The bartender eyed him warily, so Ian slapped a 20 on the bar, which improved the service marginally. Three shots weren’t going to mix well with his meds, but hyperventilating from panic before he got on stage would be bad too. He downed each shot with a grimace, then turned to watch Mickey open the show. He appeared to only be emceeing tonight, rather than performing, but Ian didn’t mind. 

The first few readers didn’t set the room on fire, but they did well enough, from what Ian could tell. After that, he did order a few more shots, and then the performers seemed to improve dramatically, aside from not being the one person he was there to see. That’s when  _ The Plan  _ went off the rails.

“Up next, Ian?”

Silence.

“Ian, uh, Gallagher?” Mickey looked down at his clipboard in consternation. It happened sometimes, people bailed at the last minute, lost their nerve. He was in the process of licking the tip of his pencil to scratch the name out, when a giant flame-haired idiot climbed onto the stage from the floor, entirely bypassing the stairs.

After an unsteady wobble, the man got to his feet, holding onto the mike stand for support. 

“This poem is dedicated to the eyes, I mean the blue with the man-” Ian’s eyes crossed for a moment, then he got it together, “The  _ man  _ with the bluest eyes.” Then he smiled, like he’d won a race or some shit.

After a beat, Ian seemed to realize he still had to do something, so he dug in his tight ass pockets and pulled out his phone, tapping slowly at the buttons until he found what he was looking for.

The audience started to shuffle around, uncomfortable, confused, and bored.

“This is Sonnet Ex Eye by Pablo Nude- Neruda, sorry, Pablo.”

[ I crave your mouth, your voice, your hair. ](https://hellopoetry.com/poem/9927/love-sonnet-xi/)

[ Silent and starving, I prowl through the streets. ](https://hellopoetry.com/poem/9927/love-sonnet-xi/)

[ Bread does not nourish me, dawn disrupts me, all day ](https://hellopoetry.com/poem/9927/love-sonnet-xi/)

[ I hunt for the liquid measure of your steps. ](https://hellopoetry.com/poem/9927/love-sonnet-xi/)

The audience was silent. Ian’s voice wasn’t the steadiest, nor did he have any declamatory skill, but the raw desire and longing in his voice- they believed it. 

[ I hunger for your sleek laugh, ](https://hellopoetry.com/poem/9927/love-sonnet-xi/)

[ your hands the color of a savage harvest, ](https://hellopoetry.com/poem/9927/love-sonnet-xi/)

[ hunger for the pale stones of your fingernails, ](https://hellopoetry.com/poem/9927/love-sonnet-xi/)

[ I want to eat your skin like a whole almond. ](https://hellopoetry.com/poem/9927/love-sonnet-xi/)

He started to lurch around the stage, waving his free hand in a weird-mimicry of a Shakespearean actor as he recited. With every word his speed increased, until he was circling the small stage in just a few long-legged strides, coming alarmingly close to stepping off the edge more than once. The audience was losing the sense of the words he was saying, but Mickey knew them, knew the poem well.

[ I want to eat the sunbeam flaring in your lovely body, ](https://hellopoetry.com/poem/9927/love-sonnet-xi/)

[ the sovereign nose of your arrogant face, ](https://hellopoetry.com/poem/9927/love-sonnet-xi/)

[ I want to eat the fleeting shade of your lashes, ](https://hellopoetry.com/poem/9927/love-sonnet-xi/)

Ian glanced around wildly, looking for Mickey, for the  _ body  _ and  _ face  _ and  _ lashes _ , but lost track of where his big feet were going, and fell off the stage just then, into the arms of a surprised audience member with the loose-limbed, innocuous landing of the very inebriated.

Mickey leapt to the center of the stage, and looked down, quickly ascertaining that Ian was unharmed. He gave a little smile to the audience then, and finished the poem from memory. If he looked a little fond, everyone knew better than to remark on the fact.

[ and I pace around hungry, sniffing the twilight, ](https://hellopoetry.com/poem/9927/love-sonnet-xi/)

[ hunting for you, for your hot heart, ](https://hellopoetry.com/poem/9927/love-sonnet-xi/)

[ like a puma in the barrens of Quitratue. ](https://hellopoetry.com/poem/9927/love-sonnet-xi/)

Years ago, before he’d come out, Mickey had looked up that last word, wanting, needing to know what that final sound was meant to be, for a poem that held so much meaning for him, so much promise. 

He slid off the edge of the stage, and hoisted Ian into a fireman’s carry, making his way through the crowd. After a quick conflab, Mandy appeared on stage, and introduced the next performer, recapturing the audience with her bright smile.

Outside, Mickey found the silver Jeep parked in a quiet spot at the back of the lot far from the streetlights, and let the drowsy man down, leaning him against the side of the vehicle as he searched those damnably tight pockets for the keys. Ian seemed to wake up a little, letting out the faintest moan as Mickey’s hand delved into his back pocket. Ok,  _ maybe  _ there was some cupping and squeezing going on, Mickey was only human. Having found the keys, Mickey unlocked the doors and hoisted the deadweight into the passenger seat. Dude was heavier than he looked. And if that meant, fully sober, he was strong enough to manhandle Mickey a little in turn? No harm there, none at all.

He got into the driver’s seat, and then paused. He knew what street Gallagher lived on, but not his address. Snagging his keys was one thing, going through the guy’s wallet was another level of weird entirely. 

Weird had never stopped Mickey before. He was rifling through the few items in Ian’s wallet when one bleary green eye peered at him.

“Wassat?”

“Ain’t it your birthday today?”

“So?”

“Happy birthday, Ian  _ Clayton  _ Gallagher, 2119 South Wallace,” Mickey teased.

Both green eyes were regarding him now, with what looked like suspicion. 

“Gimme dat-  _ that _ . S’my wallet.” Ian was trying to get his words out.

Mickey held the wallet up with his left hand, as far away as he could from Ian’s seat. “Oh, this? You want this back? Sorry, I’m gonna have to hold onto this for a while, make sure you don-”

**_SLAM!_ **

Ian had lunged across Mickey’s body, reaching that impossibly long arm out, nearly reaching the wallet, in fact. The move had ended up with his torso hanging over Mickey’s lap, and rather than continuing to fight, Ian flopped loosely, draping himself around and over Mickey as he sat in the driver’s seat, warm freckled face pressed to Mickey’s neck, hot lips already making their presence known.

“Hey, ok, hey, Gallagher, you can’t just-” But Mickey wasn’t pushing his head away, was in fact threading those tattooed fingers through the gelled hair, pulling Ian’s head closer to his neck, biting his lip and squeezing his eyes shut.

Even drunk, Ian Gallagher was a fucking menace.

Somehow, snake-like, Ian had sidled halfway into Mickey’s lap, wedged between Mickey and the steering wheel, mouthing at the pale skin over Mickey’s neck, nipping and mouthing at the tender skin behind his ear, sucking a deep love bite. Regretfully, and more than a little hard, Mickey pushed his head away, trying to make eye contact.

“Gallagher, seriously, you’re totally wasted right now. It’s like- it’s wrong.” 

“S’not wrong, can’t be  _ wrong _ , when it feels like this.” Ian bent forward, pressing their lips together softly. He had a point-  **No** . Mickey shook himself, pushing Gallagher off of him entirely and back to the passenger seat where he sat, pouting, arms crossed.

“Listen, Mr. No Chill, I ain’t sayin’ no forever, just maybe not while you’re three sheets to the wind. 

Mickey’s lips felt numb, like something vital was missing.  _ Ah, fuck.  _ Maybe they could make out, just a little? In the driveway, or something. He convinced himself this was a viable plan, so Mickey keyed the ignition, and drove to Ian’s house, ignoring the petulant red head beside him.

It really was a short drive, and Mickey spent the time trying to will down his erection, at the same time as he longed to taste the whiskey on the other man’s tongue again.

He pulled into the narrow driveway, parked the Jeep, and turned the engine off. The overhead dome light flicked on automatically, and a whuffling, snuffly noise echoed from Mickey’s right. He looked over, and saw Gallagher was out, just fast asleep and slumped against the door. Ian looked a little like an overtired child, who has fallen asleep in the middle of all his toys. The dome light went off, leaving them in the warm darkness of the August night. Maybe, maybe Mickey should just leave him for a few minutes, he looked pretty fuckin comfortable.

\---

Bright sunlight was shining in Ian’s eyes, and his head was pounding heavily. His mouth felt dry and cottony, and as he opened his sticky eyelids, he saw that he was still in the Jeep. He couldn’t quite recall how or when he’d gotten in the Jeep, but he was parked in his own driveway. As he was in the passenger seat, he felt pretty sure he hadn’t done the driving, which was definitely for the best. 

A warm weight was settled across his lap, and looking down, he saw Mickey curled fast asleep, head firmly pressed to Ian’s stomach. A deep red mark stood out on the pale flesh of his neck and Ian had a sudden sense-memory of sucking on Mickey’s neck and kissing those full lips. He smiled, running his hungry fingers through the dark hair, down the strong arms, tracing the ink with his finger tips. He had no idea how long he spent just being fascinated by Mickey, but when he looked again, Mickey was watching him, eyes wide.

“You were right, you know,” Ian offered, voice conversational, as if they were in the middle of an ongoing discussion, not waking up cuddled together.

“I was? I mean, fuck, of course I was,” Mickey corrected himself. “Bout what, though?”

“August. Your life changed in August.”

Mickey laughed then, that smile Ian had been craving, lighting up his face like a beacon. There was no malice, no deceit, no hiding. Just Mickey and Ian in August. Ian leaned down for a sweet kiss, nothing too deep or drastic (his mouth tasted like a small animal had been nesting there for a month or two) but a lingering one, that felt like promises kept and oaths given.

Love, like all art, was nothing, until it was everything. 

  
  
  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So this story got knocked out in three nights with the help of Peppaspice.   
> It was never going to be a big epic story, and it is what it is.   
> Hope you enjoyed it!

**Author's Note:**

> End Notes:  
> I have taken liberties with the order of the Siken poem.  
> The real end of the Siken poem:  
> "What would you like? I’d like my money’s worth.  
> Try explaining a life bundled with episodes of this—  
> swallowing mud, swallowing glass, the smell of blood  
> on the first four knuckles.  
> We pull our boots on with both hands  
> but we can’t punch ourselves awake and all I can do  
> is stand on the curb and say Sorry  
> about the blood in your mouth. I wish it was mine.  
> I couldn’t get the boy to kill me, but I wore his jacket for the longest time."  
> Sound like anyone we know?


End file.
